


Thieves: Red Dead Roulette

by Omnibard



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (mostly), Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Choose Your Own Ending, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lost Love, Love Triangles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-18 15:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard
Summary: (This is the canon-compliant ending to Thieves)It's been a year since Blackwater and Miss Schofield's departure.  So much has happened.  Now terminally ill and facing the end, Arthur is forced to choose where his loyalties truly lie...(Canon-compliant up to the cutscene before the story mission 'Red Dead Redemption'!  This whole thing is spoiler-tastic for the whole game and especially this mission!)AGAIN: SPOILERS





	1. The Last Round

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Thieves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18100643) by [Omnibard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard). 



> This is a Choose Your Ending story (there are two!) Please use the links at the bottom of each chapter!

“Well I guess that’s that then…” Arthur managed after his coughing fit, spitting out the bloody phlegm he’d hacked up in the dust of the retreating horses, “all them goddamn years...”

His chest and throat were torn raw.  His heart was torn raw. The whole goddamn world felt torn raw.  Dutch and the other men were gone. Tilly and Jack were in front of him, barely holding back tears.

“Come on, Arthur…” Sadie said quietly, still mounted up behind him, “Let’s go get her.”

Anything more she intended to say was interrupted by hoofbeats on the road further back.  A woman rider stood there in fine clothes on a sleek blood bay mount lightly lathered, as if run hard not long ago.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Adler,” The woman announced, ignoring the revolver pointed at her.

Tilly sobbed relief, “You came!”

“Who the hell’re you?” Sadie demanded, not lowering the gun.

Arthur could only stare at her for several shallow breaths.  He wondered what it meant, that she might reappear now…

Here.

With everything torn open like it was.

He wondered how she managed to look so unchanged.  The same rich, dark hair and pale eyes. The same youth and beauty.  It felt like a dozen lifetimes had passed since he’d seen her last…

But no.  It’d only been since Blackwater.  About a year now.

It was just that everything _else_ had changed so much in so short a time.

“Of course I came,” She said, “I promised I would, and I always keep my promises to my friends, Miss Jackson.  I’m so happy to see you looking well.”

She smiled at Jack warmly, who stared at her with unmasked recognition, despite his fears for his mother, but her words were for the adults, “Abigail is safe.  So is John Marston.”

“John’s dead,” Sadie retorted, “Dutch went back--”

“--Did he tell you that?” The rider asked quietly.

“... Catherine…” Arthur said, too much emotion in his throat, “... What are you doin’ here?  Is John an’ Abigail really…?”

“They’re safe.  Everyone is safe, but we don’t have much time.”

“Everyone?”

“Oh you _didn’t_!” Tilly was nearly beside herself with either giddiness or tears or something in between.

“What is goin’ on?!” Mrs Adler demanded impatiently.

“The camp is empty,” Catherine said, “... Well, empty of anybody you know.”

Arthur’s stomach cramped, suddenly recognizing that the riders ahead were running headlong into possible danger, “... What have you _done…?_ ”

“I did what I said I’d do,” She said softly, her expression solemn in the face of his accusation, “and he chose his road.”

“Arthur, who--”

“--Catherine--”

“--Listen to me,” She said sharply, quieting the horse beneath her, “Our time here is very short, so listen and do not interrupt me.  I will tell you what you need to know _now_ , and then maybe I will have a chance to answer your questions.  First, you need to answer _mine._

“I know about most things that have happened in Blackwater and after.  Arthur, you knew when I left that I was planning to match wits against Dutch.  Believe me or don’t, but this mess you’re all in has been caused by the choices _Dutch_ has made that all of you have been complicit in.   _His_ choices have been the ones that mattered with respects to what has happened around you.   _My_ choices affect what will happen very soon.  I am telling you this because you need to understand that at this moment, _your choice_ is the one that matters to me most, right now.  I’ve played my last hand. So I’m going to ask you some questions, and at the end, you have to choose.  Do you understand?”

“No.  I don’ understand at all.”

“You will,” She said, glancing over his head toward the forest, before meeting his gaze, “Do you know why Dutch listens to Mister Bell instead of you?”

“Because Micah is a hissing snake in his ear--”

“--Yes, but that wouldn’t have any value to another sort of man.  You wouldn’t listen to him. Charles wouldn’t-- nobody does besides Dutch.  Do you know why?”

“Do you?”

“Micah tells Dutch what Dutch wants to hear.  Micah confirms every belief Dutch has in his own brilliance and infallibility.  The more you question him, and Micah doesn’t, the more Micah’s word weighs heavier in his thinking.  This isn’t your fault, or even Micah’s… this is the sickness in Dutch’s head. Micah has no power over Dutch that Dutch doesn’t _give him_ in exchange for blind validation.  Do you understand?”

None of them answered her, and the raw wound in Arthur’s chest tore open a little further as the words settled.

Taking his silence as affirmation, she took a breath, as if weighing the wisdom of continuing, “...Are you aware that Micah has been working with the Pinkertons to double-cross the gang since you returned from the Caribbean?”

He believed her, immediately.  The truth of it was a lense that brought everything into focus so _well_ , but still he asked, “...How do _you_ know that?”

“Agent Milton told me while trying to convince me not to take the Pinkertons off of the case after my husband’s murder in Annesburg.”

Pinkertons.   _Husband_.  Arthur thought he was going to be sick. “What?”

“Pinkertons!” Sadie raised her revolver again, “She’s working with the Pinkertons?!”

Tilly chewed her lip, “Sadie, wait!  Miss Scho--”

“--It’s Mrs. Cornwall, actually.” Catherine said, “And I’m--”

“Cornwall!” The word came out like an angry curse and Arthur was choked by another fit of debilitating coughing, like all the pain, anger, and disgust with the entire situation was trying to claw its way out of his chest at once.

“We can’t believe anything you say!” Sadie railed.

“No!” Interjected Tilly, “She’s our friend!  She’s been trying to help us all year! I got her letters, I can read them to you!”

“There isn’t time for this, listen to me!” The pale eyes were steadily fixed on Arthur, and she spoke firmly after his coughing had ceased, “No, I’m not working with the Pinkertons, and they are no longer working for the late Mister Cornwall.  I removed them from the case and they are now under investigation by the Federal courts for obstruction of justice. I have eliminated them as players. This is how I know that Abigail is safe. Agents Milton and Ross were arrested by US Marshals hours ago.  Men under my employ picked up John where Dutch left him and are delivering him under my orders to Emerald Ranch to reunite with his wife. That is also where Miss Grimshaw and those remaining at Beaver Hollow were sent some hours after you left with Dutch for the train job.  They’re waiting for us there. As part of my cooperation with the US Marshals, I then gave them the location of Beaver Hollow and the time at which to expect Dutch van der Linde and Micah Bell, and those in their employ.”  
“You… you gave us away…” Arthur whispered, poleaxed by the revelation.

“No.  I am saving you.” She told him, raising her chin in that way he remembered loving: proud  but not haughty, “If you choose to let me. I even gave _Dutch_ the choice, when I withheld my information from Tilly-- my dear, I am sorry for my duplicity, I hope you will soon forgive me-- so that he could choose as you did, and prioritize the safety of those to whom he should show loyalty and compassion.  I would have met with him here by your side. But he didn’t choose that. He abandoned her. He abandoned John _twice_ .  He abandoned _you_ , Arthur!  I heard about it from Charles.  Yet, I have not abandoned you. I have spent a year struggling to save all of you from his single-minded vanity.”

“‘Save us’...” Sadie scoffed, “How?  By handing us over to the law?”  
“No.  The Marshals want Dutch and will overlook the disappearance of others… for a time… in exchange for him.  We can discuss more at Emerald Ranch. There is no time now.”

“What about Javier and Bill?” Arthur asked, “They rode off after him.  They ain’t gonna give Dutch up. They’re loyal…”

“Bill… would not see reason, which should not surprise you.  You are right, Javier _is_ very loyal,” Catherine agreed, “... To me.  To my goals. He’s been indispensable.”

“To you!  But he--”

“--We can discuss further later!  Once we see him riding past on that ridge there, we have to be on our way or we will be caught up in the investigation.  I will not be able to protect you then! There isn’t time! Any moment now he will break away from the riders and they will carry on into Beaver Hollow and those lying in wait!  Arthur, you have to decide. It has to be now if you are to have a fair choice at all.”

There was only one other time he’d seen her so impassioned, though it had been a different sort of passion, then, but it had lit up her face with the same flush, and shined in her pale eyes the same way.  Despite every gnawing doubt and twisting confusion, he found himself fixated on her face, on her words.

“I’ve told you the truth.  The whole of my plan. Now I am asking you to do the most difficult thing anybody will likely ever ask you to do:  I beg you, Arthur Morgan, to see my plan finished and come with me to Emerald Ranch.”

With a deep sigh, the outlaw nodded his head, supposing he should have known from the beginning, “... You’re askin’ me to leave him.  To give him up... “

“Yes.  How many times has he betrayed your trust in him?  Yes. Let him go. The others are waiting for you.”

“... An’ if I won’t?”

“... I can’t and won’t stop you.  If you leave now, you might be able to catch him before the trap closes around him.  But Arthur, think about what I said. Think about what _will_ be said.  You’ll tell him it’s a trap, that the law is waiting.  Micah will deny this. He doesn’t know the Pinkertons aren’t on the case, and he is working with them.  He will convince Dutch as he did just now. Then what will you do? Shoot him? His cronies will turn on you.   _Dutch_ will turn on you.  Even if you choose him now, Arthur… he will not reward your service to him.”

* * *

* * *

 [Arthur leaves to warn Dutch...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122822/chapters/42845951)

[Arthur leaves for Emerald Ranch...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122822/chapters/42846143)

 


	2. Arthur leaves to warn Dutch

He was torn open.  The whole world was torn open.

“Maybe you’re right…” He said quietly, meeting her gaze, “... You was always clever.  Too clever for me.”

She knew.  Watching the shadow of sorrow swallow up her face brought him no pleasure, “... Arthur, please--”

“--Miss Tilly, Mrs. Adler, please take this boy to his momma an’ daddy.”

“--Arthur--”

“--Mrs. _Cornwall_ ,” He continued, voice hard, “if any part of you is the woman I knew a year ago… a woman of principles and courage… if anything in you is still true… you will take proper care of these people.  They’re _good_ people.  The best.”

“... I spent a year of my life ensuring that I could, Mister Morgan.” She replied, “You can be assured that I will.”

“... I guess that will have to do… Be a good boy, Jack.  Mind your momma.”

He returned to Slim and climbed up into the saddle, paying no mind to the tears streaming down Catherine’s face.

The whole world was torn open.  Better she should weep, he supposed.

Digging his heels into flanks, he told himself he did not hear her farewell.

The Ardennes was sure-footed, even in the forest, and fast in short spurts.  Arthur didn’t like pushing his mount and friend like this, but sensed Slim knew his urgency.  They thundered between the trees, over the ridge. A flash of movement and shadow on his left--

“Arthur?  Arthur!” Javier pulled back on the reins, Boaz all but sitting on his haunches to turn and stop obediently.  They stood there a moment, shivering, as if undecided.

Arthur had no words for him.  He was torn open. The world was torn open.  The noose was around their necks already, and all he really knew was that Dutch didn’t know the truth.

Dutch didn’t know the truth, and maybe if he did…

Because that’s what he was, wasn’t he?  All them years, hadn’t he said he was a seeker of truth?  Of freedom?

And if he wasn’t?  What did that make him?  What did that make all of them?

Just killers.  Just thieves.

Well.  If he was just a killer, then he was going to kill Micah Bell if it was the last thing he ever did.

The thought spurred him, and he nudged his heels against the horse’s heaving sides again.  If Javier was here, then the marshals were already close. Up ahead he could hear the pounding hooves.  The urge to holler was great, but he needed to save what little breath he could spare.

Dutch needed to hear the truth.

The riders had slowed to a trot as they neared the clearing.  The quiet must have them spooked. He saw them turning to face him as he tore through the forest like Hell itself was on his tail.

Then he saw the first man step through the underbrush and he raised his revolver to put a window in his skull.  Micah saw as well, and reached for his revolvers as well. Arthur pulled the trigger, and death roared through the trees.

It roared from behind him as well as in front of him.

He was thrown from the saddle, into the underbrush, and that he felt no pain, and could not lift himself was worrisome.

Like the dull, heavy feeling in his chest, as if some big bastard was slowly sitting on his ribs.  It was harder to breathe. He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t move at all.

They’d broken his back.

All around him was gunfire and shouting.  He heard The Count squeal in pain and Dutch cry out, but he couldn’t turn his face to see.

Arthur’s lungs were filled with despair and frustration.  He was going to drown in futility.

He’d charged up here and accomplished nothing.  Nothing at all.

His entire life, what had it been for?

_‘... I spent a year of my life ensuring that I could, Mister Morgan.  You can be assured I will.’_

He believed her.

He _believed_ her.  She would take care of them.  She’d done what he couldn’t.

The tears streaming down her beautiful face was the last thing he saw before the dark closed in.  It seemed right that she was weeping.

She was weeping in his stead.

* * *

 

Steeling her nerves, Mrs Catherine-Louise Cornwall, _nee_ Schofield pushed open the door to the Annesburg jail.  The US Marshals had agreements with the local sheriff to perform the summary executions that evening.  They wanted the business done swiftly and quietly.

The lady wanted that as well.  It would only be good for everyone.  Once it was done, they could all move on with their lives.

Their lives after the Van der Linde gang.

She gave the Sheriff, Tom Burry, a decent, hard-nosed man, a small smile. “Good afternoon Sheriff.  I just need a moment of your time…”

He had been expecting her, and did not flinch when she withdrew the billfold and slid it across the desk.

“Catherine!” Dutch exclaimed, climbing to his feet and approaching the bars, “Catherine, oh my Catherine, you would not believe how I’ve miss--”

His words stuttered to silence as the Sheriff accepted the money and nodded, saying softly, “... Sure thing, Mrs. Cornwall.  I’ll take myself a nice walk.”

He left, the door banging shut behind him, leaving her alone with the imprisoned men.

“... Miss, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” Micah simpered, “The key’s right--”

“--I don’t have anything at all to say to you, Mister Bell.” Were her frigid words without sparing him a glance.  She looked at Dutch, who was staring back at her, mouth agape, as if she had just suddenly covered herself in pig shit. “... I only have a few things to say to _you_ , Mister van der Linde, and as you’ve nothing better to do, you’re going to hear them.”

“... I can’t imagine being interested in _anything_ you have to say, _Mrs. Cornwall_ … I didn’t realize what a self-satisfied _whore_ you are…” Was his scathing reply.

“I became a lot of things to see you here, Dutch.  Now hush, and listen,” Her voice was clear and patient.  He couldn’t hurt her anymore. He’d already hurt her as much as anybody could, “I’ve been told, that on a cold spring night in a small abandoned mining town called ‘Colter’, after foolishly sacrificing poor Jenny and the Callander brothers, and at the time maybe Sean as well, you said you would gladly throw yourself in the ground in their place.  But you couldn’t.”

“I--”

“-- Shut up.  After that, you sacrificed Sean, Hosea--”

“--You don’t know what you’re talking about!--”

“-- Molly, Lenny, and that poor O’Driscoll boy.  You sacrificed John and his wife. Or you thought you did.  You didn’t give it a second thought.”

Dutch stared at her, nothing but seething hate in every facet of him.

“Then you sacrificed Arthur.  You took everything that made you worth anything, Dutch van der Linde, and threw it away as if you could be something without them.  I came here to tell you you finally have the opportunity. You’re going to throw yourself in the ground for the ones you _haven’t_ been able to kill yet with your selfish, blind vanity and pride.  You’re going to die for them, and these lawmen will make doubly sure you do, but nobody will remember you fondly for it.”

She looked him over, then shrugged, “Nobody will remember you at all.  If it takes the rest of my entire life, I swear to you, Dutch van der Linde, nobody will remember you ever were.”

“... Do you really hate me so much?”

“You threw away the only good man I ever knew.  Like garbage.”

“He _was_ garbage!  Human garbage”

Catherine knew he thought she was talking about Leviticus, and he was right-- the man had been reprehensible to the extreme.  A better likeness of Dutch van der Linde in the waking world she would never find again. Or so she hoped. She’d already buried two.  God ought only permit _three_ such demons in mens’ hides...

“...He left something.  I think he meant for you to see it in the end.” She pulled the folded piece of paper out of her coat with faintly trembling fingers and passed it to him through the bars.

Snatching it from her, he dropped his glaring eyes to the paper to find Arthur Morgan’s neat, scrawling script:

 

 

 

 

> _John, protect Abigail and Jack._
> 
> _Rains Fall, save your son as you could not save your people._
> 
> _Dutch, start listening to them as really loved you._

 

He looked at her, face draining of color and strength, but she was turning to leave.  Then, as if remembering suddenly, she faced Micah.

“... It seems I do have something to say to you: Agent Milton and Agent Ross are being tried for various crimes in the federal court, so I do not think you will be finding amnesty from _them._ ”

Then she left the jail and climbed into her carriage.

“All done, ma’am?” Her driver asked.

“Yes, thank you.  Take me home. I’m expected for dinner…”

She was glad when they were on their way, wheels rattling along the road.  There was less chance anybody would see or hear her crying.

THE END

* * *

* * *

 [(I want to see the other ending!)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122822/chapters/42846143)


	3. Arthur leaves for Emerald Ranch

…

…

Arthur was sitting alone on the edge of the covered porch, leaned casually against the solid oak, whitewashed pillar to his right, surveying the play of the afternoon sunshine over the rolling grassy hills and the towering forest beyond them.

He often sat alone like this, these days, one of his journals at his side, in easy reach.  Usually it was next to the cup of herbal tea someone in the house would diligently make for him every six hours or so, to soothe his cough and the pain that came with it.

He could have the company if he wanted it-- everybody in the great house at his back or anywhere on the manor grounds would make time for him.  But he liked the solitude. The quiet. He was only forty-one, but he thought he had a better idea of why Hosea had spent so much time on the fringes of camp, contemplating the surroundings.  The hours seemed to linger longer like this, as if he could feel each one pass through his hands, and if he flexed his fingers just a little, he could grab hold of it.

But he didn’t.  He’d stolen plenty of time already.  Five years.

Five years dying.  Maybe he’d get six, but in his bones… he didn’t think so.

Five years living.   _ Living _ .  It was ungrateful to think of it any other way.  Catherine had opened her fancy California estate to him for his retirement, so that he might live his last in comfort as well as liberty, and he’d had few options but to accept.  He hadn’t expected to live past Emerald Ranch.

But after Emerald Ranch, she’d dispensed lines of credit to everyone for six thousand dollars to make new lives, and most had.  Some had taken jobs in one of the many lucrative Cornwall industries-- like Javier and Strauss had. Others had moved east and seized their own destinies-- like Mary-Beth and Tilly.  Charles had gone to Canada with Rains Fall and the Wapiti. The Marstons had bought themselves some land in West Elizabeth where a number of them-- Arthur included-- had helped John build a house.  Susan Grimshaw and Karen were here on the estate-- Susan had her own little house on the property and managed the female staff, Karen stayed in a guest suite in the house when she wasn’t in Hollywood.  It’d taken some work, but they’d dragged Miss Jones out of the bottom of the bottle and she was off to make herself a star or  _ marry _ one.  Catherine supported her goals.

Catherine supported all their goals.

She was upstairs in her damn office doing it  _ right now _ with her letters of business.  As a woman, she didn’t have direct control, but as the primary investor and owner, she had a voice that could not be ignored.  Her intelligence and determination, too, kept them from barring her out of the decision-making. From her place just outside the board rooms, she tirelessly pulled strings, guiding the powerful industries and battled those who sought to wrench them from her grasp.

It was demanding, thankless, soul-destroying work.

Arthur was certain it was killing her just as surely as the TB was killing  _ him _ .  He was sorry for it.  He knew it wasn’t the life she’d wanted.

But it was the life she’d chosen.  She’d married Cornwall to use his influence and wealth to save them from Dutch, the Pinkertons, and the US Marshals.

Now Dutch, Cornwall, and Micah the traitor were all dead, and Arthur was still alive.

And he’d finally made it to California.

Not the way he’d wanted, of course, but it had been a good five years here.  He spent his time how he liked, kept outdoors in the pastures, and on the trails when he had the energy, and rested when he too-often didn’t.  He read, sketched, and wrote.

And wrote.

And wrote some more.

Catherine had suggested it a year or so ago that he might find it helpful to apply himself to a purpose-- a goal-- for his remaining time, to keep from despairing about the increasing list of things he could  _ no longer do _ in his declining health and increasing physical weakness.  She’d told him that the world was rapidly changing, and that it would be changed forever.  The ways of life he’d known were disappearing, and though there was bitterness in it, there was also the promise of something  _ new _ .  In the meantime, however, everything he knew and all he remembered was a commodity fast drying up elsewhere in the world.

‘You have a gift,’ she’d told him, ‘and a hundred-thousand stories nobody will ever hear again if you don’t tell them.  The people you’ve loved and everything they shared with you… Nobody will ever know these things again in this world. If you choose to, you can ensure they aren’t forgotten in these new times.’

So he filled up journal after journal, pouring everything he could remember into them.  Every story Hosea had told him. Every heart-pounding heist Dutch had led them through. Long nights around the fire.  Hard rides across the country. Every song he could recall the lyrics to. Every joke of Uncle’s he could bear to put to paper.

He did not neglect the present.  He wrote about his sickness, and the people here he feared he was killing with his presence.  Mrs. Cornwall paid and treated her servants very well, and they were hard-working, thoughtful people who doted on her and Arthur, himself.  They made no secret on how enamored they were of the enduring romance between them.

Somehow.

To this day-- to this very afternoon in the California sunshine, sipping the bitter herbal tea sweetened with honey on the porch!-- Arthur could not understand why the most beautiful and cunning woman he’d ever known, one of the wealthiest and most powerful women in the United States was doing a foolish thing like remaining in love with a man a mere two steps from his grave!

He was worried for her.

He worried what would happen to her once he was gone.

He’d debated time and again writing someone-- Javier or Charles, maybe?-- to come to the house and stay with her.  To make sure she didn’t spend all her time chained to that desk they both hated.

 

“Shall I bring you lunch out here, or can I coax you to the table?” Catherine’s voice came from behind and above him, through the opened window letting in the afternoon.

“Was wonderin’ if I’d hafta drag you downstairs away from yer papers…” He mused before turning and smiling at her, “Spare the table.  We both need the sunshine.”

Opening the door, she crossed the porch and sat beside him, “Will you eat this time?”

“A little.”  The tea used to be much more effective at encouraging his appetite, but after years of use, the effect had all but worn off.

Her smile was only a little strained, as she brushed the hair back from his temple with her fingers.  She was tired. Worried. He knew she worried about him-- his suffering. His mental strain as his body crumbled around him.

She’d bear them in his place if God and Arthur had permitted it…

She worried needlessly.  He  _ had _ struggled, before, with the idea of him outliving his ‘usefulness’.  She, and others, had helped him through it.

He’d made peace with his death.

Now was just the waiting.

The waiting and the writing.

The end was coming soon.

* * *

When Arthur had not come for breakfast in the morning, Catherine had suspected the hour might be at hand already.  Heart in her throat, blood turned to ice despite the warmth of the sunshine pouring in through the windows, she made her way down the hall to his bedroom.

He was still abed, eyes closed despite the glaring light.

“Arthur?”

He did not answer, did not stir, so she crossed to his side and felt at his throat for a pulse.  The skin was warm, but the tell-tale throb of life was absent. Gently resting the side of her head against his chest, she heard and felt that all was still.

“Oh.” She said in the stillness of the room, looking at his face from her vantage against his chest.  Her head was suddenly so heavy, she wasn’t sure she could lift it again.

“... I’m… I’m so sorry.”

The stinging in her eyes and throat swelled until her nose burned, but she swallowed back her emotion and forced herself upright.

“I’m sorry you went alone… Oh, Arthur…” This was ludicrous, she knew.  Speaking to the corpse, reaching for his hand and pressing it with hers like he could still feel any sincerity from the gesture, “I should have been here.  I’m sorry.”

His other hand was resting on the leather-bound cover of his newest journal, his pencil closed within in, marking his place.  She stared at it for several moments, willing the burning in her nose and eyes to fade.

He’d taken her consul and started writing his memoirs, and she had promised to collect and publish them if that was his desire.  He’d told her he’d consider it, and would let her know in the end what he’d decided.

This was the end, and he’d not said anything.

… Or hadn’t he?

“... I’m just going to check this last page.  If there’s no instruction for me, I won’t read another word, I swear…” She whispered.

That he did not answer, and would not answer her again opened a wide gulf inside her.  It was a deep, dark hole, and if she considered it too long, it would swallow her entirely…

She opened the journal where the pencil lay between the pages, tucked in the crease of the spine.

 

> Catherine,
> 
> Though you don’t like to hear it, I’m going to thank you in any case.  Thank you for this time you’ve stolen from God and the Devil themselves to give me.  Nobody deserved it less, but I am very grateful. I know you will continue to work hard to keep everyone safe, but it is my hope you will not make yourself a slave to the labor now that I am gone.  I know I did not always make our time together pleasant, but I was glad to spend my last with you. You deserve happiness. You deserve love. Thank you for sharing them with me.
> 
> -A
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. Do what you think best with all these other scribblins.  You always thought they were more special than I did.

  
  


Mrs. Cornwall spent the rest of the day in the front parlor at the small writing desk, penning letters to those who would want to hear of Arthur Morgan’s passing.

She doubted any would wonder at the odd drips of water that sometimes bled the ink into the paper in a light smear.

Arthur’s many volumes of journals were moved to her office and locked in the safe.  In the future, she’d have to carefully consider how to proceed with them and their precious contents, but for now…

… For now she needed to grieve, she supposed.

THE END

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[(I want to see the other ending!)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122822/chapters/42845951)


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